ILL FORTUNE FOR THE DIFFYS
by CraftyNotepad
Summary: "Somebody help me find my raspberry cocktail of a mouth harp. Come on, People! Chop! Chop!" ordered Lloyd Diffy, his voice voice colored by panic, his face painted in fear.


Disclaimer: I exclaim my claim to disclaim any claim one may infer regarding my ownership of Phil of the Future.

ILL FORTUNE FOR THE DIFFYS

by

CRAFTYNOTEPAD

"Somebody help me find my raspberry cocktail of a mouth harp. Come on, People! Chop! Chop!" ordered Lloyd Diffy, his voice voice colored by panic, his face painted in fear. "We're bugging out in five - make that "three" minutes. Leave those pots and pans, Barb. There's no room in the time machine. Besides, you'll never use them in the future, anyway. I mean, if you couldn't learn to cook in this century, what are the chance that you could do it in -?"

"Who's going to drive after Mom kills Dad?"

"Don't worry, Pim. Dad's survival instinct may be a little retarded, but eventually, it catches up to his mouth. See? He's stopped talking already."

"Pim! Help your mother with her essential cookware."

"Tell Phil to do it. "I'm going to need at least six trips just to secure my ... acquisitions."

"Oo-chaga," greets Curtis as he comes through the back door. The other members of his tribe are certainly active today. Why? Danger? He sniffs the air in a couple of directions. No smoke. Just that poo water Fill wears to catch Kee-lee. Foolish Fill. Hunt. Give Kee-lee a stag. No need smell like poo. "**Curtis say 'oo-chaga**,'" Curtis greets again.

"Curtis! We almost forgot Curtis - again!" Barbara immediate filled Curtis's arms with a portion of her 21st Century culinary collection, then pointed, "Go put these in the time machine, Curtis. Hurry! Come back for more. We're leaving."

"Ah-gen?" sighed Curtis, long ago tired of this game the Diffys played.

"Yes! AGAIN, CURTIS!" Lloyd pops into the kitchen, arms full of his wildly colored sweaters, his head sporting six fishing hats, though he's never been fishing, wouldn't even know which end of the rod to hold on to. Alike a master sergeant force marching new recruits on a ten mile hike, Lloyd ushered the family caveman out of the kitchen, through the backyard, and into the time camper.

Thump, Thump, Thump. Down the familiar staircase comes his daughter, trailing a pair of pregnant pillowcases behind her. Normally, Phil would grill Pim on their contents, and these "we're heading back to 2121" false alarms undeniably had become ordinary events for the Diffy over the last two years; however, this time Phil actually agreed with his father, not because he wanted to. It was the undeniable evidence his dad had shared. Undeniable, and thus, this time they were really, really actually leaving, and that meant -

"Hi Mrs. Diffy. Spring cleaning?"

- Keely. Tears. Breaking her heart ... again.

"OH ... Keely. PHIL! KEELY'S HERE!"

"Great! One more chance to pester Miss Perky Pants before we go," announce a chipper Pim, somehow always unaware that she spoke aloud before it was too late.

CRUNCHshatterBOING! Phil's size 10 lands squarely atop one of Pim's bags of swag, and the resulting expensive sounds emanating from within pushed all thoughts of torturing Teslow out of Pim's brilliant brain, soon to be substituted by similar thoughts with her brother now in her bull's-eye. For now, though, Miss Diffy is peeking inside her squashed pillowcase, tabulating her loses. Anyone else would use their wizrd, but for tax purposes, she doesn't dare leave any such records. This century is not a duty-free century, you know?

"Oh, uh, Keely."

"Say, Phil, what are you guys playing, scavenger hunt? Can I play, too?"

"Maybe we should sit down - Dad, Curtis, put the couch back down."

"Two minute warning, Son. Hi. Bye, uh-"

"'Kee-lee'," prompts Curtis.

"We're gone in two. Can anybody tell me what's the point of learning her name now?"

"You Doofus."

"Hey, I've never seen any point in learning her name," quipped Pim indifferently.

"L-L-Leaving?" whimpers Keely, her knees beginning to buckle as she collapses onto the couch.

"And right now," adds Phil. "We gotta leave right away, Keels."

Lloyd butts in, "I'll bet it was Hackett. He's always had it out for this family. I don't know why. Say, where did this come from? I don't remember Pim ever winning a ballroom dancing trophy."

"Dadster, of course you don't remember. You were too busy at the hardware store to take time out to cheer on your favorite daughter dance in - in, uh ..."

"The trophy says Phoenix, Arizona, Pimmerella, 2003. Did you borrow the time machine when I wasn't looking?"

"How could you forget your only daughter's dance recital and call yourself my father?"

"Come on, Curtis, I'll help you empty your things out of our garage."

Back to Phil and Keely on the couch where Keely asks, "What is your dad talking about?"

Phil reaches into his pocket. "It's these secret messages we've been getting." Phil pulls out a number of small strips of paper and hands them to his only reason to stay.

Keely starts reading each warning aloud: "'You will soon be the focus of attention,' 'Someone special has noticed you already,' 'There is a tall dark stranger entering your life soon to get to know you inside and out.'" She can't believe what she is reading.

"I know, Keely. Scary, huh? Even Pim hid under her bed. We've got to go while the getting is good. So, I guess this is good-bye," concluded Phil, lips puckered out at the ready. Without looking much, she pushed his face aside.

"Not so fast, Future Boy. How long have you been getting these warnings?"

"A few days now."

"Okay. And is your mother's cooking getting any bet-" Mrs. Diffy poked her head out of the kitchen. "-ter compliments than the ones you tell me?"

Phil picks up on what's going on, "No ... everything's pretty much status quo when it comes to Mom in the kitchen." Phil's mom smiled.

"Say, Phil, even though your mom's cooking is ... unbelievable, has there been some nights where you've ordered out for dinner?"

"Sure, um, Mom learned about home delivery using the phone. It's cool, Keely. You can order ribs, or pizza, or sauerbraten or -"

"Or Chinese, Phil."

"How'd you -?"

"Know? Phil, don't you have Chinese food in the future?"

"The best."

"Really? Well, these aren't secret messages warning your family about men in black coming to take you away. These are fortunes from fortune cookies, Phil." Phil looked blank. "Chinese fortune cookies? Cookies with fortunes inside them - don't they have them in the future anymore?"

Phil slapped his forehead, "Not with little slips of paper inside them. Hey, wait a second ... oh, of course. The messages must have discontinued when people started using natal pods. See? Along with belly buttons, birthday cakes were also discontinued. I was always taught birthday cakes were the only foods you could read, but I guess people must have stopped reading all kinds of foods. So, let me get this straight, you mean -"

"- you don't have to go back to the future, because nobody knows your secret."

"HEY, DAD!"

"Phil! Are you still saying good-bye to ... your little friend? Come on, Son! Up and atom! Empty out her belly button and get yourself in the time machine pronto. We're outta here."

"Just a second, Dad."

"No time, Phl!" announces Mr. Diffy, then throws Phil over his shoulder and hurries toward the backyard, before finding himself suddenly slowed. Looking down, Lloyd sees young Miss Teslow clinging to his left ankle; she's saying something, but he never really listened to her before, so why start now?

"Cookies! THEY"RE JUST FORTUNE COOKIES, MR. DIFFY! You don't hafta go! Stay! Stay! STAY! (... please ... just put him down ... please)"

"Got to get away, Kelly." (He almost got it right.) We're being watched right now. We've got to go now. Now, leggo, Lady!"

Keely doesn't, but it doesn't matter. Lloyd Diffy's a sequoia of a man and, despite the weight of both his son over his shoulder and the 21st Century teen firmly attached to his left leg, nothing can stop him as he pulls the three of them through the house, across the deck, lawn and to the time machine's door, which Barbara opens suddenly. BAM!

"Is Phil ready, Lloyd? Lloyd? LLOYD!"

"Everything's okay, Mom. Well, obviously not Dad. (That's going to leave some mark, Mom. What do you say? Blame Pim?) The important thing is, this is all a huge mistake. Tell her, Keely."

Keely makes uncharacteristically short work of her explanation, the extremely long version left on the cutting room floor of her frontal lobes as if she could already hear the closing theme music. Barbara is on board with the folly of her husband's foible; Curtis nods, not comprehending the words, yet construing the relief on the three upright faces around him masterfully. Lloyd? Well, he'll take the news better than he took his wife's door opening to his face.

"Where am I? Barb? Are we there yet? We've got to get outta h-," and then he passes out again.

"Dad?"

"Don't worry, Phil. I'll take care of your father. Why don't you and Keely take your things back to your room?"

Happiness spreading like wildfire across their expressions, Phil and Keely simultaneously take hold of each other's hand and race in doors without any luggage. There's a near collision as Pim exits the house backward, still dragging on her pillow cases, one of them quite noisy.

"Watch it, Dillweed! What are you smiling about?"

Keely hugs Pim, who shivers with the repulsion usually only reserved for the weekly perusing of the upcoming cafeteria menu.

No further explanation is offered. Pim's only additional clues are the glee in their gate as they run up the stairs three at a time, then the a celebratory slamming of a bedroom door behind them.

"Mom?" queried his sister.

"Isn't it great, Honey? We're staying!"

"#$%&%$#"

"Pim Diffy! Don't use language like that ever again!"

"Aw! Brat Snacks. I really wanted to leave this podunk century this time."

"Sorry, Sweetie, but, as you get older you'll realize sometimes, that's just the way the cookie crumbles."

~ END ~


End file.
